


Lethobenthos

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bruce Has Issues, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tony Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They just kept getting thrown together, no matter how many times they got torn apart. </p><p>In most stories, that would have meant something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethobenthos

* * *

 

 

**June, 2011**

 

 

There was a sick swell in the pit of his stomach – like a tumor. Like a growth. It sat there, heavy. Hungry. Throbbing. Cold beneath his hand, if he deigned to touch it. A pregnant mother could soothe the child in her belly with a gentle hand against her skin, a few murmured words. His fingers, against his stomach, against the thing growing inside of him, only incited flashes of cold, spins of nausea, aches. Pangs.

He knocked back a glass of … something. Wet, warm – if it was warm, it was probably bitter, but it was to the point where he couldn’t differentiate between tastes. Maybe it was alcohol on his tongue. Maybe it was gasoline. Maybe, if he swallowed a match, he’d combust. That would … hurt.

“Tony, you’ve had enough.” Pepper, behind him – she was probably angry. Or at least annoyed. She was always annoyed with him over something. He eyed the glass, now empty, and swallowed down whatever was left in his mouth as he looked through it.

“Nope!” Through the glass, the carpet looked warped, as if there were wavelengths vibrating beneath it – beneath his feet. He giggled, feeling the echoes of delight about it. Dancing on wavelengths. “Am I still standing?”

He could _feel_ Pepper’s approach. She was … weird. He’d never been able to identify the body heat of someone he hadn’t slept with outside of bed, before her. But he felt it now, increasing and increasing and increasing as she reached him, hot – enough that he was able to move away his (empty, idiot) glass before her hand snaked around him to try and grab it for herself.

“Barely,” she responded dryly in his ear. He grinned in response, unable to help himself, and stepped away from her heat.

“Then I’ve _almost_ had enough,” he corrected, instead looking around for another bottle of … something. He was relatively sure that none of the beautiful crafted bottles scattered around the penthouse were filled with gasoline; it was probably all alcohol. He’d probably just be consuming alcohol. But it wasn’t guaranteed. Hell, maybe some of it was poison.

He snatched up a bottle resting innocently by the counter, fingers wrapped tightly around its fragile neck as he brought it closer to study its cap. There could be poison left behind. Poison seemed plausible.

“Tony.”

The note in Pepper’s voice made the lump in his stomach drop, harden, twist. He hissed a breath through his teeth and focused more harshly on the top. It needed to come off. If he put down the glass to twist it, Pepper would take the glass. He could just drink straight from the bottle … he wasn’t angry enough to drink straight from the bottle.

“Tony,” she said again, still with the gentle note that made his nerves spin. “You need to come back down to the main floor.”

“I really don’t.” He wanted to drink whatever was in the bottle from his glass. Whatever was in the bottle needed to get into his glass.

He brought it closer to his face and squinted at it.

“It looks suspicious,” Pepper continued. He loved Pepper – he’d hired her because she was efficient and didn’t take his shit and because she was … likeable. Kept her because she … cared. Or at least that was what he’d been told. “Tony, I … no one’s going to buy the story if you don’t sell it.”

_No one’s going to buy that you’re sad that Obadiah died if you don’t show some remorse. They’re going to get restless, they’re going to dig, they’re going to find out. Think of the stocks. Think of the goddamn stocks._

He whirled around, then, the movement sharp enough to send the unwanted thoughts spinning, and thrust the bottle into Pepper’s face.

“What color is this?” He demanded. Her pretty blue eyes blinked at him, startled. Good. No, not good, sorry Pepper, not good. Just-

“What?”

“The color,” he repeated, shaking the bottle for emphasis. The liquid inside sloshed around pleasantly. “Look at it. What color is it, Pepper?”

“Tony-.”

 _“What color is it?!”_ He probably screamed, but what did it matter? They were floors away from everyone else, and Pepper was used to his screaming, and he wanted the damn drink in his glass.

Dropping his hand to the body of the bottle, he smacked the neck harshly against the counter and reveled in the cracking shatter that answered.

_“Tony.”_

He ignored her. With the neck broken, he could get the drink into his glass without putting his glass down to take off the top. And he did so, watching as it poured in an inelegant waterfall, as a few bubbles popped up inside of it, as it glimmered under the light, as it settled, waiting for him.

“Gold,” he said, felt his grin slip as he continued to look at it. The growth in his stomach throbbed in acknowledgement. “See? It’s gold.”

His glass shook a little, overfilling. It was always gold.

“…Alright.” Pepper’s little hand wrapped around his wrist, soft. Pepper had never tried to direct his movements. Pepper was different. “Tony, it’s okay. You don’t have to come back, alright? I’ll handle it. But you’ve had enough and I need you to stop now.” She was trying to get him to let go of it. The bottle. The glass. Something.

“It’s gold, Pep.” He insisted, not releasing his grip.

“I know.”

It was gold.

_(“You like it?”)_

“Obie didn’t like gold.” He wasn’t screaming anymore; could barely even hear himself. “Obie’s dead. I like gold. I really-.” He swallowed, feeling the familiar dizzying sensation that had been there for years, had been so prominent today, when he’d stood and kept a blank face and took condolences for the beautifully ornate coffin being lowered into the ground. “-I really like gold.”

Pepper looked stricken. Pepper understood him. Pepper knew exactly what the words coming out of his mouth, tripping over alcohol and gasoline and the stickiness of funerals, weren’t saying. “Oh, Tony.”

_(“I almost got silver.”)_

The wavelengths under the carpet, under his feet, gave a particularly strong pulse – the broken bottle slipped from his hand, its edges biting against his palm in final retaliation before it hit the floor with a thud that Obie’s coffin hadn’t when it had touched the dirt of the ground.

He reached for it, watching the gold soak into the ground, and his stomach spasmed, maybe it hurt (maybe it didn’t. He could never tell anymore), maybe it just rolled and rolled and didn’t stop rolling. He reached for it (hadn’t reached for Obie) and instead felt his knees hit the floor to join it. Tired.

“Tony!” Hands on his body, around his own neck. Frantic and fading.

_(“I thought gold would suit you better.”)_

 

* * *

 

 

Cocooned in a borrowed sheet and burrowed into the lumpy mattress of a borrowed bed, Bruce jerked awake to an elbow jamming harshly into his ribs and the violent, relentless buzzing of his cellphone on the table beside him.

Shoving back against the attack with a grumble of his own, he clicked on the bedside lamp, and reached for it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [In response to this set of prompts](http://ashnapalm.tumblr.com/post/133266193269/its-so-hard-to-pick-from-the-au-list-i-think). It was meant to be short. Sorry.


End file.
